


What's in a Name?

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some months, and I, at his request, had sold my practice and returned to share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask—an incident which only explained itself . . . when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes’, and that it was my friend who had really found the money. — The Adventure of the Norwood Builder</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to fitofpique for extremely helpful and thorough beta.

Waiting at the Diogenes Club, Sherlock Holmes was disconcerted to find himself fidgeting. He had asked for his brother’s help before, of course, but only with such puzzles as would amuse him. It was difficult to predict how Mycroft would respond to an appeal for assistance with a more personal matter.

The last time Holmes had been in the Stranger’s Room, it had been to arrange for Mycroft’s assistance in eluding Moriarty. Asking a man to rouse himself for the sake of his own brother’s life was a far cry from begging money merely to make his domestic situation more agreeable, not to mention the fact that his flight from London had had a fair measure of intrigue to engage Mycroft’s interest.

Mycroft arrived and thumped his hand on Holmes’ shoulder as he passed. The sturdy armchair across from Holmes gave out a small sigh as Mycroft settled into it. “I’m afraid I must ask you to proceed directly to the object of your visit,” Mycroft said most abruptly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I fear that in your nervousness you could waste a considerable amount of time with mindless prattle—quite unlike you, brother mine—and I am terribly busy at present. Say what you have come to say and let me get back to my work.”

Though he knew he should not be surprised at Mycroft’s acuity, Holmes was made most uncomfortable by the knowledge that his fretfulness was so very obvious. Mycroft had barely glanced at him before speaking.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his tone a clear warning.

“Yes, of course,” Holmes answered. He sat up, ramrod straight, and looked Mycroft directly in the eye. “I’ve come to ask you to loan Edward Verner a rather substantial amount of money.”

Holmes had the satisfaction of seeing Mycroft’s surprise register for a brief moment before his expression returned to its usual serenity.

“You astonish me,” Mycroft said. “Whyever would I do such a thing?”

“He has finished his studies and would, I’m sure, be grateful for a chance to establish himself. It just so happens that my old friend Dr. Watson is considering selling his practice and throwing his lot in with me once again.”

Mycroft did not respond, but only stared at Holmes, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“My services have been very much in demand since my return, and I could find no better partner than Watson, who is already familiar with my methods,” Holmes said. He detested the rambling manner in which he was speaking, but Mycroft’s silence seemed to restore the younger brother’s awe that Holmes had not felt so keenly since they were boys.

“Edward would repay you, of course, although I imagine it will take some years, unless he is able to greatly improve upon Watson’s modest success.” Holmes stood and paced the length of the room. “You would be doing him a good turn, and Watson as well. I believe he is almost as ill-suited to living alone as I.”

The small smile grew slightly larger, and Mycroft’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly. “And?”

“And it would be a great favour to me, as well,” Holmes said quietly. He stopped and waited, then, without saying anything further. He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets to keep them still.

“Very well,” Mycroft said at last. “I shall write Cousin Verner this very moment. Though he will doubtless think me a meddlesome old fool, I’m certain he will accept the offer. Indeed, he would be the fool if he did not. Your Dr. Watson should be free within the week.”

A wave of Mycroft’s hand dismissed any attempt to thank him. The smile lingered on his lips, but its character changed. It became fond, indulgent, but also teasing, knowing. Holmes, however, could not tell what had amused Mycroft. He had not attempted to hide his own interest in the affair—why should Mycroft smile so?

As Holmes turned to leave, Mycroft called him back. “I see no need for Dr. Watson to have any knowledge of our arrangement, if you would prefer.”

Holmes only nodded in reply, wary of saying anything more. It had not occurred to him to keep these arrangements from Watson, but Mycroft’s suggestion of secrecy made him pause.

*****

When Watson had packed his things to leave Baker Street, the process had seemed to go on for weeks, so Holmes was pleasantly surprised at how very quickly things progressed upon his return. In a matter of days he arrived to stay, bringing remarkably little baggage: only his clothing, his medical kit, and a few boxes of books.

“Ah, your house was let furnished.”

Watson looked up from the books that he was sliding into their places on the shelves. “Indeed. We had a few things that came from Mary’s family, but I gave them away. Her cousin was just married, and he and his bride will make far better use of them than I.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “When it came time to pack up, I found there wasn’t much I wanted to keep. I am having my desk brought round later. I hope finding room for it won’t be an inconvenience?”

Holmes did not bother to reply, as Watson already knew the answer to his question.

Mrs. Hudson came home late in the morning and was also surprised to find Watson an established member of the household so quickly. She gushed over him, promising to head back to the market directly to find the ingredients for his favourite meal. He smiled at her but was obviously relieved when she left the room.

“Mrs. Hudson seems more pleased at your return from Kensington than at my return from the dead,” Holmes said.

This remark earned a sly smile from Watson. “Only because she knows I can manage you.”

Holmes was too pleased to have Watson home to argue with this claim.

Watson’s desk was delivered just before they sat down to supper. Once they had finished their meal, they spent a half hour pushing furniture about until they found a suitable arrangement. Immediately, Watson set to filling up the drawers with his papers and ink bottles, then seated himself behind the desk with a contented sigh.

It seemed a pity that there was no case, now that Watson was free to accompany Holmes no matter the destination or hour, but it was very agreeable to have a quiet, comfortable evening in the sitting room. Tucking his feet up into his armchair, Holmes alternately stared at the fire and watched Watson at his new desk. It was a large, imposing piece crafted of dark walnut, and, seated behind it, Watson gave the impression of writing something of much greater import than one of his romanticized accounts of their work. Holmes studied Watson’s face, but his expression provided no indication of the pages’ content. 

“Watson?”

There was a pause before Watson answered, so absorbed was his attention, and when he spoke he was still distracted. “Just one moment, my love.”

The words nearly made Holmes laugh aloud, but he immediately understood: Watson’s response had been a reflex, born out of the habit of several years of marriage. It would not do to draw Watson’s attention to the mistake. Speaking of Mary in this context might disturb Watson, sadden him, and at any rate Holmes found that he did not mind. It was pleasing to think that all was so comfortable between them that such an affectionate term would slip out of Watson’s mouth without him taking the slightest notice.

All of this passed through Holmes’ mind in the moments it took Watson to finish. Holmes could see when the pen dotted the paper at the end of the sentence, and then Watson looked up, all attention. His pleasant smile dimmed when he saw Holmes’ face.

“Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Holmes answered. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re wearing the most extraordinary expression.”

“I was only going to tell you how very pleased I am to see you writing.”

“Yes, it is rather nice to be at it again.” Watson’s smile returned. “I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it.”

“The business with Moran?”

“Yes.” Watson grinned more broadly. “This one will write itself, I think.”

*****

For over a week they waited, but no case presented itself. Holmes felt the beginnings of one of his black humours. Its onset had likely been delayed so long only because of the welcome distraction of having Watson in the house once again. Watson, however, was engrossed in putting the finishing touches on his latest story, leaving Holmes to his own devices.

Watching Watson at his desk, Holmes recalled the first evening of Watson’s renewed residence and was overcome by the impulse to conduct an experiment: if Holmes were to interrupt Watson again, would it provoke the same reaction? Watson had always been a patient man, and it was logical that living so long with a wife, who had more right to his attention than a fellow lodger or even a dear friend, would have instilled even more patience in the face of various distractions.

On that evening, however, Watson frowned at being disturbed. He was polite, of course, but he clearly wished to be left alone. There was no affectionate smile and no sobriquet. Feeling most unlike himself, Holmes begged Watson’s pardon, and Watson did not ask what he had wanted. Soon after, Holmes crept away to his room, leaving Watson still busy at his desk.

*****

Watson was slouched low in his chair, his feet propped up on the low footstool. He was ostensibly reading, but Holmes had not seen him turn a page in his book for more than an hour. His face was turned to the fire, his eyes closed more often than not. He looked completely contented, but the impish need to test Watson’s patience once again arose.

“Watson?”

Starting slightly at the sound of Holmes’ voice, Watson answered immediately, his voice a sleepy croak. “Yes, my love?”

Holmes felt a rush of triumph at the words.

Watson pushed himself up straighter, blinking, and looked over at Holmes. Swaying slightly, Watson struggled to compose himself. His mussed hair and rumpled clothes sparked in Holmes an unfamiliar tenderness. Pressing against the upholstery of the chair had raised cowlick at the back of Watson’s head. Holmes lifted his hand as if to smooth it before he caught himself and let his arm drop.

He was shocked at the almost overwhelming flood of desire that rushed through his body when he denied himself that familiar gesture. The need to touch Watson was so great that Holmes clutched at his hands together to stop them reaching across the space between them of their own volition.

“Holmes?” Watson asked.

“Perhaps you should make your way to bed,” Holmes suggested. It was fortunate that Watson was too drowsy to notice Holmes’ odd tone of voice.

Watson rubbed his hand over his face. “I believe you’re right. Good night, Holmes.”

As Watson walked out of the room, his hand brushed Holmes’ shoulder. Holmes listened to his slow progress up the stairs. Holmes’ cheeks felt warm, although thankfully there was no one about to see his embarrassment.

Holmes had suddenly realised precisely what he had sought, however unconsciously. More than testing Watson’s patience, Holmes’ little experiment had allowed him to tap into an echo of the affection and comfort Watson had felt during his marriage and attempted to direct it toward himself. He very much wanted to imitate such a relationship, experience it for himself with Watson rather than merely sharing an address and snug evenings by the fire.

Why now? Why, after all this time, did Holmes’ heart decide to make itself heard? Even before his long absence, Holmes had recognized his reliance on Watson, but he could not fathom what had recently mutated his regard and affection into something terribly inconvenient indeed. Or perhaps nothing had changed—Mycroft must have recognized something of it to make him smile that smug, teasing smile, even before Holmes himself had been aware of it.

It hardly mattered, he told himself. He could scarcely imagine what alteration he would want in their relations, being equally ignorant in matters of the flesh and affairs of the heart, and the only possible course was to remain silent on the subject and be vigilant against any change in his own behaviour.

Watson’s distracted words were of no importance. They indicated nothing but the fact that he was speaking thoughtlessly. He certainly was not thinking of Holmes, who promised himself that he would never again attempt to startle such an expression out of Watson’s mouth and certainly would not indulge in futile fantasies. However, Holmes found it difficult to push the subject from his mind.

The very next evening Watson held a match for Holmes while he lit his pipe, and he became uncomfortably conscious of Watson’s steadying hand on his elbow. Immediately thereafter, Watson tossed the stub of the match into the fire, then came to sit next to Holmes on the sofa, so near that this knee pressed against Holmes’ leg. When he reached across to retrieve the newspaper on the side table, his hand briefly rested on Holmes’ thigh.

Had Watson always touched him in this manner? So casually? So intimately? Or was Holmes only now becoming aware of it because of his newly increased interest in Watson’s person?

Contrary to his expectations, Holmes found that allowing his mind to dwell on Watson in this manner had a strangely positive effect on him. He could not make himself feel any guilt or regret, nothing that would naturally turn him away from such thoughts. He had always imagined that the experience of falling in love would be weakening, distracting, even disturbing, but he found that the reverse was true.

He was perversely pleased by it all. Simply watching Watson walk into the room left Holmes elated. Hearing Watson speak was a pleasure, and making him laugh was infinitely more satisfying. It made Holmes feel invincible.

That precisely was the problem with falling in love, Holmes chided himself. It was easy to believe yourself invincible, infallible, powerful when you were so ridiculously happy, but it did not make it any more true. However, if he retained enough of his reason to recognize the problem, perhaps he was not so very far gone. Perhaps he was still himself.

*****

Holmes kept his promise to himself and made no further effort to surprise Watson into saying words he did not intend to say. Therefore, when Holmes passed the butter dish as requested at the breakfast table one morning, Watson’s response took them both equally by surprise: “Thank you, my love.”

Holmes head snapped up, and he cautiously lowered his newspaper. Watson’s cheeks had turned a deep shade of red.

“My dear Holmes, I must apologize.”

The blush that flooded over his own face made Holmes feel too warm, almost light-headed.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Watson stammered. “I’m mortified. I—”

“No, I understand,” Holmes said, wishing that Watson would let the subject drop. He was all too conscious of the fact that the words had never been for him. “Please, think no more of it.”

Holmes had hardly finished speaking before Watson was out of the room. Holmes retreated behind the safety of the broadsheets, feeling an overpowering disappointment: now that Watson was aware of his slip of the tongue, he would no doubt be more guarded.

*****

Holmes was in the sitting room, staring at the printed page in front of him. Perhaps it was silly to maintain the pretense of attention to his reading when there was no witness, but he had hoped that feigning interest might result in the absorption of at least some information. However, he read the opening paragraph time and time again without digesting anything of its meaning. In frustration he threw the monograph to the floor and rose to douse the lamp so that the room was filled with dancing shadows from the fire. The darkness suited his foul temper.

The house was too quiet. Holmes stared at the fire, hearing the housemaids scurry off to bed, and then Mrs. Hudson’s slower footsteps as she made her rounds before retiring.

Since the uncomfortable breakfast several days earlier, Watson had been absent much more often than was usual, and when he was at home, they were awkward together. It pained Holmes to think that their companionable silences and lively discussions could be at an end, and so soon after Watson had returned. 

Another hour passed before Holmes heard Watson’s latchkey in the door. When Watson burst into the room, he brought a frigid cloud of damp air with him, but he wore a glowing smile.

“You’re still awake,” Watson said.

“As you see,” Holmes answered, wary of Watson’s suddenly lively manner.

“I’ve been at my club all evening,” Watson explained as he filled two tumblers from the decanter on the sideboard. “I’ve just formed a new acquaintance.”

The jealousy that surged through Holmes was ridiculous, of course, but he could not bear thinking that this acquaintance might be responsible for Watson’s cheerfulness. “Have you?”

Watson brought one of the glasses to Holmes, who held it stupidly for a moment before setting it down on the table beside him.

“A Dr. Verner,” Watson continued. “Edward Verner, I believe. The fellow who bought my practice.”

Holmes watched in mute horror as Watson lifted his glass and drained it. To have Watson aware of the efforts made to ease his return to Baker Street—it was humiliating.

“I’d wondered who he was, how he knew to contact me. And I was surprised that he never once questioned my price,” Watson said. He studied Holmes’ reaction. “Why did you never tell me that he is your cousin? That you arranged everything, that you and your brother helped him to—”

Springing out of his seat, Holmes interrupted. “Watson, please. I—” “Thank you,” Watson said as he approached and stretched out his right arm. 

Without thinking, Holmes reached out to shake Watson’s hand, but Watson turned Holmes’ hand as he took hold if it, gripping it in both of this.

“I had been a bit concerned that you asked me to move back only because…” Watson cleared his throat. “Well, because you pitied me. It’s a great comfort to know you were as eager to have me as I was to return.”

Holmes wished he could deflect Watson’s gratitude. His hand was still in Watson’s grasp, and he was startled to note that Watson’s fingers trembled, almost imperceptibly. The phrase ‘eager to have me’ lingered a bit too long in Holmes’ mind for anyone’s good.

He looked into Watson’s face only to find Watson’s eyes fixed on him with a curious focus. Helpless, Holmes could only gape at Watson, certain that the longing he felt was plainly displayed.

“Thank you,” Watson repeated. “I didn’t dare hope… But when I talked to Verner…”

Watson leaned close and, to Holmes’ profound shock, pressed a gentle kiss on his mouth. His heart began to race.

Another kiss left Holmes’ lips tingling, and after a third, he heard himself moan quietly. As Watson’s mouth slid over Holmes’ jaw and down his neck, it sent a shiver down his spine. In his confusion, Holmes gasped and cringed.

Watson pulled away and frowned in concern. “Holmes?”

Holmes stared, horrified that already he had disappointed Watson with his inexperience.

“Oh, no,” Watson whispered. He closed his eyes. “Please tell me I am not wrong in this.”

Holmes clutched at Watson’s arm. “No! Oh, no, not wrong, Watson, please.” Holmes could not quite gather the courage to initiate another kiss, but he pressed close and wrapped his arm about Watson’s waist.

The tension in Watson’s frame relaxed. “Then why did you shrink away?”

“You must remember that one of us has very limited experience on this continent, much less several others,” Holmes said, careful to keep his tone light. “You must resign yourself to being the expert.”

Watson looked at Holmes, his brows knit. “But I have no experience at all in matters such as this.”

“It can’t be so different.”

“I assure you, it is very much different.”

“But why?” Holmes said. He began to pull away, but Watson’s next words made him pause.

“You’re my dearest friend,” Watson said quietly.

His tone was almost reverent, and Holmes was deeply affected to think that their friendship was so dear to Watson that it rendered their situation a thing apart, completely different from the intimacy that he had share with women in the past—perhaps even his late wife.

“If we take this step…” Watson continued. “If we find we cannot… It seems… monumental.”

“I must disagree. This next step will be a rather small one.”

“Small? Holmes—”

“It would seem to me that we have mastered all of the more difficult bits. We are comfortable together. You know all of my most bothersome habits and have learned to tolerate them, and while I am not at this moment willing to allow that you have any shortcomings at all, I can assure you that I regard rather fondly any of your own characteristics that you consider as such.”

“Indeed?” Watson said. “I seem to remember plenty of instances when you didn’t hesitate to point out my faults and—”

“Watson, a perfect memory is not a virtue in a situation such as this.”

The smile that spread across Watson’s face made Holmes’ breath catch. It was time to be daring.

Holmes reached for Watson’s hand. “The fact that we have navigated all of this, that we have learned to live together so peacefully—don’t you find that remarkable?” Holmes lifted Watson’s hand and kissed it. “I would say that, in comparison, discovering how best to please you…” Holmes licked a delicate stripe across Watson’s palm, eliciting a most gratifying gasp. “Well, my dear Watson, I should think that would be a relatively simple matter, even to one as inexperienced as I.”

Watson wrapped both arms around Holmes and drew him near, their bodies meeting at chest, hip, and thigh.

“I promise to be a most enthusiastic pupil,” Holmes whispered.

“Good Lord,” Watson said. “You’re—”

When Watson broke off, Holmes’ mind immediately suggested possible endings to this sentence. He hoped the word to follow would be something along the lines of ‘bewitching’ or ‘irresistible,’ but as the seconds ticked by in silence, ‘maddening’ or even ‘ridiculous’ seemed to be more likely.

Finally, Watson bent his head close for a kiss, this one different from the last, more heated and urgent. As he parted Holmes’ lips with his tongue, his hands slid up inside the back of Holmes’ waistcoat, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Holmes feared his legs might give way. He tried to draw back so that he could pull Watson’s jacket off, tear at his buttons—he wanted so badly to touch, to feel Watson’s flesh under his fingers, to taste Watson’s skin and hear his breaths grow more ragged. He wanted everything at once.

But Watson would not let him go. He held Holmes close, mouthing his neck and pulling his shirt out of his trousers, then thrusting his hand up under the fabric, sliding his warm fingers over bare skin. He made a sound, a kind of rumbling in his chest, and grabbed Holmes’ hip to drag him closer, tracing a line of kisses down into his collar. This time Holmes felt no nervousness and leaned his head to one side to encourage Watson’s progress.

When Watson finally released him, it was only to topple him back onto the sofa. Watson immediately followed, falling on him with countless kisses. As Watson pushed the braces off his shoulders, Holmes could hear his own breathing—quick, shallow panting. Any hopes of calming it were dashed when Watson licked and nibbled at the tender skin under Holmes’ jaw as he started on the buttons of Holmes’ waistcoat.

When Watson whispered, he was so near his moustache tickled Holmes’ ear. “You all right?”

“Watson,” Holmes managed to get out. “Don’t ask silly questions.”

After a quiet chuckle, Watson traced the curve of Holmes’ ear with his tongue, then sucked on his earlobe. Watson rose to his knees to straddle Holmes’ legs, leaning down to seal their mouths together once more. He then peeled open Holmes’ shirt. Where his fingers roamed, his mouth followed, down Holmes’ neck and across his left shoulder, pushing his clothing aside. 

As Watson’s mouth lingered at Holmes’ collarbone, his hand moved lower over Holmes’ belly to his waistband and pulled at his trouser buttons, and Holmes held his breath. Once his flies were opened, Watson wrapped his hand around Holmes’ cock, gently at first, but gradually he tightened his grip as the speed of his strokes increased.

Holmes felt himself to be a curious mass of contradictions, his muscles tense one moment, straining into Watson’s touch, then weak and liquid the next. He wanted to seize Watson and cling to him, but it was thrilling to simply allow Watson to do as he liked.

Molten heat pooled low in Holmes’ belly. Watson’s mouth was on his, but he could not return the kiss, could not control any part of his body. He heard himself whimper as his climax overtook him. Watson’s head bent so that their foreheads were pressed together, still stroking him, drawing surges of pleasure, stealing the scant breath left in his lungs.

After one last, slow kiss, Watson moved away. Holmes was far too enervated to prevent him. Watson settled on the cushion next to him and made quick work of tidying him up.

He rested his head on Holmes’ shoulder, fingers trailing across Holmes’ chest and belly. It was all Holmes could do to fight for his breath as he wondered at Watson’s patience, for he seemed content to be still, nestled close, when Holmes was certain Watson must feel every bit of the urgency he himself had felt a short time before.

As soon as Holmes was able to coordinate his movements, he turned his head for a lingering kiss, then slid off the sofa onto the floor. He moved between Watson’s legs, looking up into his face.

“Holmes.” Watson’s voice was quiet, but his eyes were dark. His tone was almost scolding as Holmes worked on his buttons. “Holmes, you don’t have to—”

His protest died in his throat when Holmes’ mouth closed over the head of his cock. He was silent as Holmes slid both hands up his legs but moaned softly when Holmes grasped his hipbones.

Cautiously, Holmes let his lips glide down, relishing the feeling of Watson’s legs shaking against his ribs.

“Please, Holmes. Please…”

Exhilaration flowed though his body at the desire in Watson’s voice. He experimented with his tongue, drawing it slowly up and down and then circling the crown of Watson’s cock. Watson struggled against his grasp, and Holmes moved his hands away. Watson immediate bucked up, forcing Holmes’ head back, then froze and whispered an apology. Holmes only increased the speed and pressure of his tongue, and Watson thrust again. There was no apology this time, but only a low moan and another jerk of his hips. Holmes was delighted that Watson no longer seemed able to direct his own body—his hips rising and falling helplessly as his groans became more frequent.

The rhythm of Watson’s movements suddenly altered: a small hitch as his hips pushed up. Holmes knew that he was close and leaned closer, taking as much into his mouth as he dared. Watson cried out, and Holmes felt the pulse of his release at the back of his throat, hot and bitter and more copious than he expected. Almost choking, he swallowed quickly and tightened his lips again but could manage nothing more. Watson gave a last strangled moan, filling Holmes’ mouth yet again, then was still.

Holmes knew that he had been awkward. Any pleasure from his attentions was a result of gratitude and affection on Watson’s part more than any finesse on his own, but the gasping sighs that Watson still could not suppress, the clumsy way he petted at Holmes’ hair, and the singular expression on his face when Holmes finally raised his head all argued that Watson had no complaints.

He reached for Holmes, tugging at his hand, until he pushed himself off the floor and crawled up to sit on the sofa. Watson wrapped his arm around Holmes’ shoulders and rested his forehead against Holmes’ temple, his still-rapid breath in Holmes’ ear. Holmes leaned into the warmth of Watson’s body beside him. Once Watson had recovered somewhat, he began to scatter kisses indiscriminately across Holmes’ face, and Holmes turned his head so that their mouths met again, drawing a contented sigh from Watson.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said. He knew it was rather a foolish, inadequate thing to say, but he could think of nothing better. It seemed that Watson understood him well enough, for he pressed his face into Holmes’ neck and wrapped his arms about him more tightly.

“Will you come to bed, my love?” Watson murmured, and kissed him once more. Holmes nodded and followed happily, knowing full well that Watson’s words were only for him.

The End


End file.
